


Life Imitates Art

by days_of_storm



Series: The Eye of the Beholder Series - Book I [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the British Library incident, John finally realises that Sherlock means more to him than he thought. But how does one handle a sudden emotional change?</p><p>This is the second part of the Series, starting with The Eye of the Beholder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verityburns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verityburns/gifts).



Grey in grey, everything was grey. John stood by the window and sighed. The snow was still there, but there hadn't been any sun in over a week and he felt that the downcast sky reflected on his mood.

Sherlock had been gone for three days now, and even though he sent him a text to the new phone he had given him almost every other hour, it was still painfully obvious that John couldn't quite function without him anymore. John knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn't help but be scared; and by god there were so many things to be scared of.

Essentially nothing had changed, but John now knew what the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach was. It had always been there from the very first day on when Sherlock had suddenly left, stubbornly not telling anyone where he was going and therefore telling John everything he needed to know. God, he had been able to read Sherlock the moment he had set foot into Baker Street.

Sherlock might have talked faster than John could actually process, but the way he had said things, the way he had already occupied every centimeter of the flat before John had even seen it and the way he had stood in that door and asked him to come along; all of those things had explained to him who Sherlock Holmes was, and that his presence would occupy every inch of his life as well. The most obvious side effect of the fascination the man triggered in John had been an automatic protective reflex. He wouldn’t have been able to explain why, but Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant man - a brilliant and very stupid man, and John knew he needed to protect him.

And now he couldn't protect him.

John walked into the kitchen to make tea, if only to take his mind off worrying about his friend.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sherlock had taken the liberty to clear out his experiments in the fridge and exchanged them with real food four days ago. John had been flabbergasted when he had come home from the bank to find the fridge restocked and Sherlock lying on the couch with a smug look on his face, pretending to read.

"Did you go shopping? I mean, that's not just milk in the fridge … that's food. A week's worth of food."

Sherlock smiled at him, proudly, but there was something hidden underneath that smile, John noticed. He must have had a good reason for doing this.

"No and yes," Sherlock answered, sitting up. "I did not go shopping, but I found out that you can order food online and have it delivered. But yes, you are quite correct. The amount of food will get you through the week without you having to go shopping yourself."

"Are you leaving?" John's disappointment must have been very obvious, because the smile on Sherlock's face faltered and made room for an expression that John could only interpret as anxiousness.

"It's just for a week, John."

"A whole week!" John knew he had spoken too loudly, but he couldn't stop himself.

"I have to go. And before you ask, I will tell you all you need to know about it before I leave. You can't come along, though, regrettably."

John let himself fall into his armchair, frowning at Sherlock.

"Are you angry with me?" The insecurity in his voice made John's heart ache.

"I'm not angry with you. I'm worried."

Sherlock relaxed visibly. "It's been a week, John, and Lestrade really needs my help." He ran his hand through his hair. "I mean, he always needs my help, but this time he was even more desperate than usual."

"Fill me in."

"Come here first." Sherlock sounded almost challenging.

John couldn't help but smile as he got up and moved over to the couch. Usually, when Sherlock asked him to come closer, he wanted to be kissed. It was still unusually exciting to kiss Sherlock, as if every kiss would be the first again; as if he had to ask for permission every time just to be sure to be allowed that advance. And Sherlock was just as shy about it, which was something that John enjoyed immensely. Sherlock being shy about anything was novel, and John felt irrationally proud that he was causing that reaction in Sherlock.

But instead of kissing John, Sherlock took hold of his arms and pulled him close, leaning back at the same time, forcing John to move down with him. Eventually John lay half on top of Sherlock and half on the couch, wrapped up in Sherlock's arms. He was still careful with Sherlock's hip, because even though the wound had healed almost completely, leaving raw pink scar tissue behind, he knew he could still hurt him fairly badly.

John looked at Sherlock, propping up his chin on his collar bone, his right leg splayed over Sherlock's, his right hand cupping Sherlock's cheek. "For someone so thin you are remarkably comfortable to lie on," he noted, making him grin.

Sherlock carefully ran his long fingers through John's hair. "It's very curious."

"What is?"

"The knowledge that I will miss you."

"You find that curious?"

"Yes, I'm not … used to missing anyone. Not like I know I will miss you."

"I wish you wouldn't have to go."

"No," Sherlock smiled knowingly. "You wish you'd be able to come along." Well, he couldn't really argue with that. And it was true. They both had slept enough to be restored to normal strength, Sherlock's wound was healing nicely, the bruise was only a shadow on his skin and they both had been anxious for something to happen.

So instead of arguing, John tried to distract himself – and Sherlock – from the daunting fact that they would not be able to kiss each other for at least a week by kissing him for a long time. Sherlock smiled into the kiss and John shifted, hoping that Sherlock wouldn’t feel the effect their kiss was having on him. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the jumps in time...I hope it's not too confusing. XD
> 
> thank you for reading <3

To get John to agree to the trip down to New Scotland Yard a few days prior had taken a bit of sweet talk from Sherlock, because John had developed an irrational fear that Moriarty might just turn up somewhere and kill Sherlock without him being able to do anything about it. Even after visiting the library and going out to the pub after the traumatic events, John was growing more anxious by the day. Eventually it had taken a long sensual kiss and a promise to be careful for John to feel ready to follow Sherlock outside. They walked down to Euston Road to get a taxi, avoiding the slim chance that a cab might have waited in front of the house in form of a trap.

When they had arrived, Lestrade had not been quite as happy as John had expected him to be, but it was apparent that three or four days without the help of Sherlock Holmes could pose quite a big problem for everyone concerned if cases came up that required Sherlock’s brain. Even Sally Donavan breathed a sigh of relief when Sherlock wandered into the office. John wondered whether she knew that Sherlock had been injured or whether she would continue hating him in her rather overt way. Since she kept quiet, he guessed that Lestrade had filled her in.

John kept close to Sherlock, and noticed that Lestrade seemed to know more about them than he was letting on. He wondered if the Detective Inspector had actually known before John himself had. Thinking back, the strange undertone in Lestrade’s voice when he had told John about the threats over the phone and when John could tell him exactly that he knew Sherlock had been home in the middle of the night, made it seem very likely. Lestrade had also seen him break down over Sherlock after the police had finally entered the library, and despite the shock and everything else, there was no denying that it had been a very intimate moment; even if neither Sherlock nor John had been able to admit to their feelings just then. John could only tell by the way Lestrade looked back and forth between them as he started to ask them his questions that he might know more about their changed relationship than John had hoped.

Sherlock had been quick to fall back into avoiding specifics, giving Lestrade just enough details to create a rough outline of events. Eventually he turned to John, looking a little desperate. "Can I speak to you alone?"

Sherlock stepped in front of John protectively, and John had to fight the urge to take his hand and squeeze it to show him that it was fine. Instead he nodded at Lestrade, who carefully avoided looking at Sherlock, being aware of the stare that was directed at him.

The DI took John into another office, leaving Sherlock to pace the hallway outside. John could see his friend's eyes go wide when Lestrade let down the blinds on the windows to the hall.

"So tell me exactly what happened." Lestrade sat down behind the desk and started scribbling in his notebook. John knew he had no choice but to tell him about Moriarty. Despite Sherlock's low opinion of his abilities, the Detective Inspector was anything but stupid and he had proved it by showing up at the right place in the right time.

"Where should I start?"

Lestrade gave him a strange look. "At the beginning?"

"Well, you do remember the bombings? Of course you do. The man behind those bombings came back to haunt us."

"Is that where the threats came from?"

"I believe so."

"Why?"

"How should I know?" He sounded defensive and he knew he needed to stay calm. "Well," John sighed, rubbing his forehead, "apparently he wants to kill him."

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes."

"Why then did he threaten _you_?"

John wasn't sure what to say. If Lestrade had been observant enough to see what was going on between him and Sherlock he should know that John had been used against him.

"He wanted to get to him, but how do you get to Sherlock Holmes? It hadn't worked with assassins, it hadn't worked with bombings … it seems like there weren't many options left."

"Oh."

John had to smile, almost, because he could see understanding dawning on Lestrade's face.

"I have been meaning to ask for a while but …"

"No."

"No?"

"Don't ask."

"But …"

"Don't."

"Fine." A sigh and a look that told John that Lestrade definitely knew that _something_ was going on.

"Thank you."

John was sure he was blushing and it was terribly awkward, because both of them were practically staring at the elephant in the room, so ´he carefully tried to steer away from the topic. "Anyway, they kidnapped him while he was trying to make sure that nothing would happen to me and I more or less accidentally showed up at the British Library where he was being held, which of course I didn't know then ..."

"More of less _accidentally_?" Lestrade pronounced the words very carefully.

"Yes." John tried his best to look innocent.

"Are you sure, I mean, he didn't mention it? Didn't talk about it"

"No. I just had a gut feeling … I don't know how, but it was there. So I went to talk to a friend of mine and then everything went mad and eventually people panicked and then someone shot a man and I tried to save his life but it was too late …" He swallowed, trying to get rid of the stale feeling that still clung to the thought of seeing the life stream out of the man on the floor. "And then Sherlock was there and I didn't know what to do and then there was another shot and Sherlock was hurt and … the man who had held him hostage got away and then I don't remember much."

He was sure that he sounded distressed enough that Lestrade might actually believe him that he had really not seen anything and that the events had been disturbing enough for him to miss important points, but it sounded sketchy, even to his own ears.

"John." He was back to calling him by his first name. He was surprised that he wasn't calling him 'soldier', making him see how completely pathetic his account was, considering where he had been and what he had done in his years in the armed forces. John ran his hand through his hair but looked Lestrade straight in the eye.

"I have three questions for you."

"Right."

"Who was that _friend_ you were talking to?"

"The curator, Miss Romanov."

"The one who called us to inform us that the old curator had been killed?"

"Yes."

"So it was you and not Sherlock that sent that message."

"I just figured that you should know."

"But how _did_ you know?"

"I didn't. I guessed. It seemed only logical."

Lestrade frowned at him, unable to tell if John was telling the truth, but clearly wanting to believe him.

"I wanted to make sure that in case anything happened, you would know. If I hadn't been right it would have been just as well …"

"Right, how did you know about the art theft?"

"I didn't." Lestrade started to look annoyed.

"Miss Romanov told me that there was an unpublished manuscript and that she had a feeling that someone might try to steal it."

"You act quite a lot on your _feelings_. Will she be able to confirm that?"

"Yes."

"Okay, last question. Who exactly is that Moriarty?"

John stared at him, lips pursed. He knew that Sherlock had avoided mentioning him. It was a game, a very dangerous game, but Moriarty had always been beyond the reach of the police. Sherlock and Moriarty worked on a different level than anyone else, and even though John knew that by now Sherlock was not amused by him anymore, he was still intrigued, still fascinated, and even John could not change that. They were just too much alike, at least in some aspects. And even though he wished it was different, he knew that Sherlock and Moriarty had not seen the last of each other.

"He's dangerous. He's intelligent. He's the worst man you'll ever meet." John could feel the hate for the man burn in his throat as he spoke of him.

"So it was he who sent the threats, who used you to get to Sherlock and who was about to kill you and him when … _someone_ shot both of them?"

"Yes."

"Who shot him?"

John shrugged. "I was about to die, I have no idea how …"

Lestrade closed his notebook, leaning in closer.

"You know that you could have killed him?" He sounded very calm, his face reflecting nothing but understanding.

John looked at him sharply, hoping that he meant his statement in a general way, aiming at his role in the whole affair, but judging by the way he looked at him and the way his voice was very low when he said it, it seemed obvious that he knew exactly who had fired the gun.

"He was going to kill me … and _him_." John sounded incredibly sad and he hated himself for breaking at this point. "I had no choice."

"So you shot both of them."

"I had to. I couldn't hit him otherwise."

"John, you know that you can't just go around and shoot people."

"Of course I know that." John's ears were burning, but he would defend his action.

"I am not going to report this," Lestrade said calmly, obviously trying to make John see that he was on his side. "I will also not think of previous mysterious shootings in connection to Sherlock Holmes, but I am asking you to not _ever_ do that again."

John nodded. He couldn't keep that promise and he would carry his gun with him if things got dangerous, and they would, undoubtedly. He would rather save Sherlock's life and kill for it than live with the knowledge that his friend had died and he could have prevented it. John was aware how insane that was, but deep down in his heart he believed that Sherlock's life was worth more than the average human life, much more. That feeling should not have been so absolute, but it was, and John hated himself for it.

"John, before we walk out of here, do we agree to not mention this, ever? Because I trust you with this and if anyone finds out that I knew about it without reporting it, they will have my arse. But you saved Sherlock Holmes' life, so I guess I owe you that much."

"It was self-defense," John argued.

"Well, that would probably make a possible trial slightly less exciting than attempted cold-blooded murder," Lestrade smiled, clearly aware that he should not make jokes about this.

He got up and walked to the door where he kept his hand on the handle for a while. "He's good with you, you know? He wasn't like he is now before you came along, and even Sally is glad that you didn't find another hobby."

"You mean he was different before?"

Lestrade laughed. "Different is not even close. If he's offensive now, just imagine him three times as bad. He reduced the entire team to tears once."

"You, too?" John asked, unable to keep the grin off his face.

"It was a cold and windy day," he said gravely, opening the door. They both laughed heartily as they left the office. Sherlock had waited right next to the door, and he immediately grabbed John by his arm, pulling him close. John looked up at him, startled.

Sherlock looked incredibly worried, his eyes fluttering over his face, trying to read him. But seeing John smile seemed to tell him enough to calm down again. They continued to look at each other for a while, faces just inches apart, the tips of their shoes touching.

Lestrade coughed nervously.

"Are we done here?" Sherlock's lips twitched as he enjoyed the discomfort their behaviour caused Lestrade. John broke their moment and looked at the DI who was not quite sure whether to stare at them or pretend that nothing was happening.

"I believe so. I'll call you when I need you."

"Good."

Sherlock just walked away, his coat fluttering around him in a rather dramatic manner. "I'm sorry." John knew that apologising would make matters only more real for Lestrade, but he felt obliged to do it anyway.

When they came home, Sherlock was nervous again. "What did he ask you?"

"Oh, you couldn't deduce it?" John knew that Sherlock was probably not in the mood for sarcasm, but he felt a bit sorry on Lestrade's behalf.

"He knows it was you." Sherlock started pacing the room. "He knows you shot him. You told him about Moriarty. He will try to find him."

John looked surprised. Had he listened at the door?

"I had to tell him, Sherlock, I can't lie to him, not to _him_."

Sherlock stopped in mid-step, his face reflecting his anxiousness. For a few seconds he just stood there, and then he started forward, pulling John into his arms, holding on to him as if it might be the last time he would have the chance to do it.

"He's not going to tell," John mumbled against Sherlock's shoulder. "And he won't be able to go after Moriarty, you know that."

Sherlock pulled away and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm overreacting."

John smiled and gently ran his thumb over Sherlock's cheek and down to his chin, pulling him back down for a longer kiss. "If that is how you overreact, then please keep on doing it."

Sherlock grinned, visibly calmer now. "So Lestrade … knows?"

"About us?" There was no definition, they needed no definition.

Sherlock nodded.

"Yes. And he said I'm good for you. Said you were a proper wanker before you met me."

Sherlock laughed at that and wandered into the kitchen. "I still am, according to reliable sources."


	3. Chapter Three

"John?" John opened his eyes.

"Hmm?"

"What are you thinking about?"

"Lestrade."

"Oh." Sheer disappointment.

John laughed and pushed himself up on his arms to press a small kiss on Sherlock's lips. "You're very funny."

Sherlock grinned and pulled him closer, kissing him again. John loved that instead of only having the last word, Sherlock had now developed the need to have the last kiss as well.

"So tell me, what is so important that it will take a whole week of your time."

"Lestrade re-opened a case that has troubled him for three years now. A couple of Cambridge students robbed a bank and got away with every last pound. The banknotes were all numbered and traceable and should have been reported as soon as they would have appeared anywhere, but since then not a single note has been spent or put into another account. Nobody knows where the money is, but Lestrade has received a hint that a man might have information to clear things up. That man is in Canada, somewhere in a village by Azouzetta Lake and Lestrade can't act there and he doesn't trust his colleagues there to actually get the job done either, so he's sending me on a _holiday_."

John decided against asking where exactly that lake was supposed to be. "How much money was stolen?"

"Thirty million pound sterling."

That earned Sherlock a wide eyed stare. "But of course you do not belong to the collective term of nobody. You have a theory?"

Sherlock smirked, and John wasn't sure whether it was because Sherlock was flattered by his comment, or by the fact that John had remembered what he had said a few sentences ago without getting sidetracked by the amount of money that he had mentioned; probably both.

"Of course I do, but apparently they need solid proof or a confession; so tedious."

"Tell me."

"They burned it."

"Bloody hell, why?"

"They knew that after stealing the money they would not be able to spend it without being caught eventually. It was a lost bet in the first place, so the money wasn't really the motive for the robbery. All parties involved were set up well enough to live off what they already owned. After the bet was lost the robbery was committed and the money was stored on a farm outside of Canterbury and then they burned it on Guy Fawkes Day three years ago in a nice little fire."

"And you obviously knew about it then and you could have just sent Lestrade to check out the ashes to see that you were right?"

"I could have. I wasn't in the mood to help him. He was being particularly annoying. Had I known that I would have to go to Canada to actually get a confession out of the person who lost that bet, I wouldn't have been so stubborn."

"So you admit it."

"Admit what?"

"That you are stubborn."

"Well, obviously. It's one of the few pleasures I allow myself."

John giggled. "You're impossible."

"But you see, there is nothing dangerous about it. I'm fairly sure of the whereabouts of the man and I won't really have to say a lot to get him to talk. I will have to fly to Vancouver and then on to Prince George and then find a ride to the middle of nowhere."

"Wait, you are going to ride on a bus? With strangers? For several hours?" The image seemed disturbingly funny to John.

"I might ask Mycroft for a helicopter, but I'd rather not."

John shook his head. "I can't believe that you would rather ride a bus than ask your brother for another favour."

"I think I've already used up all his goodwill in the cover up of my blood tests and I don't want to owe him anything."

"And I can't come along why?"

Sherlock's features softened. "Lestrade insisted. He said he would like to know that one of us is still in town just in case."

"What does he think will happen?"

"Well, it doesn't really matter. I think he's just appalled by the thought of you and me in the middle of nowhere in a log cabin …" he didn't finish that sentence and John wondered how much time Sherlock had actually spent imagining that turn of events instead of working on the case.

He pushed himself up on his arms and awkwardly climbed off the couch. Sherlock watched him with narrowed eyes and John wondered whether he might interpret this as a deprecatory reaction to his implication of them spending time alone in a log cabin in the endless wilderness of Canada.

"You'll take care of yourself." It was neither a question nor an order; it was a statement, and he could almost hear Sherlock's answer; _you know me_. John leaned down and planted a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lips.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

That night Sherlock had carefully packed a suitcase, avoiding John's eyes and John had wondered whether Sherlock really was so inexperienced with feelings for another person that he did not know how to behave around him as soon as it seemed appropriate to voice those feelings.

After he had finally finished packing and double checked that he had the right tickets, John had patiently waited in the door, yawning repeatedly, until he finally looked up at him.

"Will you … sleep here?" He sounded unsure, but decidedly hopeful. John smiled at the shyness, aware that he was most likely the only person who had ever seen Sherlock in that state. "I thought you'd never ask."

Sherlock smiled and sat down on the bed. He was clearly nervous now and John wondered whether he expected to take things further. John knew that it had probably been years since Sherlock had been touched and he would not rush things. And he himself needed time to get used to feeling the way he did, and he would just wait and see where things would take them as long as they were both comfortable with it.

John still stood in the door, suddenly unsure of what to do next. Somehow the possibility of undressing in front of Sherlock seemed a lot more intimidating than it had at the hospital. Now it was just the two of them, no distractions, no excuses, pure vulnerability. "I'll leave you to change."

He turned and went to the bathroom. While he was brushing his teeth, Sherlock appeared. Again, he was only wearing the pyjama bottoms but no shirt. His skin seemed to glow in the cold bathroom light. Sherlock wordlessly took his toothbrush and the toothpaste and sat down on the rim of the bathtub, apparently lost in thought. He eventually started brushing his teeth and John had to smile at the way he stopped now and then, clearly thinking of other things that dental hygiene. He would never cease to be fascinated by the way Sherlock just disappeared in his own mind.

John rinsed his mouth and turned back to Sherlock. "Care to share your thoughts?"

Sherlock looked up at him, almost surprised to find him there. He stood up and moved to the sink, carefully leaning against John, who still stood there. Sherlock gathered water in his hands and splashed his face, spitting out the remaining toothpaste and then splashed his face again, drawing his wet fingers through his hair.

"It's not important."

John fought against the frustration that followed Sherlock's words.

"Well, maybe you don't think it important, but I might?"

Again, a surprised look.

"I'm sorry, John. I was just thinking of another case that Lestrade won't let me work on."

"Well, maybe I could talk to him and see if my power of persuasion is any good with him?"

Sherlock smiled at him through the mirror. "I shouldn't be doing the thinking with you right here. I will have enough time to do that on the flight over the Atlantic. God, it will be so incredibly boring."

John smiled and ran a hand over Sherlock's back, nodding towards the door. "I'll get changed and then I'll join you."

Sherlock was very quick to go back to his room, and just as promised, John appeared only moments later, wearing a t-shirt and sweat pants. "Have you set the alarm?"

"I have." John couldn't tell if Sherlock was still nervous; he was, in any case, anxious for John to finally come to bed.

John switched off the light and made his way over to the bed, not without upsetting a pile of files and stubbing his toe on something hard that he couldn't define. With a grunt he let himself fall down on the bed. "I might just spend the week tidying up your chaos," he said, rubbing his foot.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, and a second later he could feel hot breath against his neck. "Don't worry about it."

Sherlock pulled him towards him gently, but decidedly. John noted as he lay down that Sherlock would have to move to the other side again if he wanted to avoid lying on his injured side, but when Sherlock kept pulling him towards him, moving so his back was facing John, he understood that he wanted John to hold him. He felt strangely moved by that notion. John found it very curios to think of Sherlock as adorable, but in this moment it was the only description he could think of. He snuggled closer, wrapping his left arm around him to hold him like Sherlock did when he held onto him. He could feel Sherlock press back, trying to attach as much of his body as he could to him and John noted that his own body was reacting rather strongly. Sherlock did not seem to mind, he just tucked one arm under his head and moved the other to hold on to John's wrist.

Sherlock's skin was warm and John's hand was splayed across his chest, feeling his heart beat. Again, he regretted wearing a t-shirt, and again he felt too comfortable now to move to take it off. He had only spent a second considering going topless when he had changed, but it just had seemed like a good idea to have at least one layer of clothing between himself and Sherlock.

"Take it off?" Sherlock sounded very calm, slightly amused and definitely hopeful.

"Do you want me to?" John could hear his breath hitch as he said it and he could feel a shudder run through Sherlock.

"Yes." Only a breath. He let go of John's arm to strengthen his point. With a sigh that feigned annoyance in order not to give away his arousal – which was really quite ridiculous, considering how hard he was – John moved back and immediately felt cold again. Sherlock had become his personal hot water bottle and a very cold week lay ahead of him. The thought that he might suffer from a relapse of his flu because he was missing the heat of Sherlock's body made him giggle.

Sherlock's head moved around. John was almost sure that it was anatomically impossible to lie on one side and turn your head almost one hundred and eighty degrees, but Sherlock did it, only moving his shoulders slightly, and watched wide eyed as John sat up and pulled off his t-shirt. He felt completely naked and vulnerable under Sherlock's eyes, but he told himself that there was no reason to be uncomfortable. He had been naked around other men more often than he cared to remember, and in the army they always had showered in groups, so it shouldn't make him so self conscious. And yet, he had not fancied the men he had showered with; he simply had not cared. He did care now.

And Sherlock did not only look. John even had a hard time defining it as observation. No, to be quite frank, Sherlock was staring at him, wide eyed, with his lips slightly parted. John could hear him swallow.

He threw his t-shirt off the bed and then leaned forward, gently kissing Sherlock, who still looked incredibly interested in the view that was presented to him. A small moan sent a jolt of white heat through John. Never in his life had he expected Sherlock to be so sexual. He had never thought about him that way; but now it felt like a revelation.

But John knew that he was not ready to take the next step. Cuddling with Sherlock, both of them obviously aroused, was not exactly innocent; but whatever was to come of it would have to wait. John knew that rushing into things was never a good idea when he wanted something to last. He had waited months until he had taken the next step with Sarah.

"John?" Sherlock sounded strangely out of breath. "Stop thinking, please."

John smiled and moved closer, returning to his previous position but trying not to let Sherlock feel his arousal, which had him lying at a very strange angle to Sherlock's body. Sherlock obviously did not approve of the compromise. He held onto John's hip as he moved back, only stopping when John entire front, including his erection, was pressed against him completely. _Jesus Christ!_ John tried to think of something that might distract him, anything, really.

Nothing worked.

"Good night, John."

"Good night."


	4. Chapter Four

The tea didn't really help, but it gave him something to do. He felt as if Sherlock's presence still haunted him. The feeling wasn't as strong as it had been in the night when he had willed Sherlock to be there, to stand behind him in the door, his name on his lips; but things were different now. He understood much better why he had dropped the milk that night. Sherlock had said that even soldiers jump when they are surprised, but it wasn't entirely true. In Afghanistan, John had gotten rid of any kind of physical reaction to anything unexpected and it had remained that way, in theory at least. That night he had let down his guard, he just did that around Sherlock, he realised; but he was sure that if it had been anyone else he would have just put the milk back into the fridge and closed the door.

And he had been so mad at him for scaring him, so passionately mad.

He had hated exposing himself in front of Sherlock, he just hadn't understood why. Now he knew and the knowledge made him smile. Things had most decidedly changed, but they had changed in ways that made it easier for John to see what was going on; who he was, and who Sherlock was. It was almost as if he had been given another chance to get to know him, a year after he had thought he had figured Sherlock out already.

But no, those little sounds Sherlock made when John kissed him, those sounds were new. The wide honest smile that was just reserved for him, and the force with which he drew him into his arms when John had said something nice or something incredibly stupid. The way he looked at him now, differently, knowing, reassured.

John wondered if Sherlock also had a mental checklist of the things that had changed between them; if he catalogued the way John's breath caught in his throat, the way he would smile absent-mindedly and how he watched Sherlock when he thought he wouldn't notice, which, of course, he always did.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

That last night they had spent together – a night in which neither of them had slept, although they both pretended to – was constantly on John's mind now. The feeling of skin on skin, his chest against Sherlock's back, feeling him breathe, falling into the same rhythm, it all made him dizzy and very excited.

The alarm had shocked them both out of their haze. They had both been incredibly tired, exhausted from a night filled with sexual tension that both had tried to ignore. It was fairly obvious why Sherlock disappeared in the bathroom as fast as he did and how flustered he looked when he returned.

John had felt almost guilty when he relieved himself, but Sherlock had been his bouncy wiry self when John came out of the bathroom. Sherlock had to hurry, and John shoved a mug of tea into his view as he was pacing the room again, already dressed in his coat, trying to think of all the things that John would have to do for him while he was gone.

"There is still the case with the old man, but I'm sure Lestrade will come by and collect the file if he needs it. It's on top of the pile on the desk." He patted the paper and walked on, grabbing the tea in mid-step. "The experiments are all gone, but in case you find anything, either freeze it or call me if you are unsure. I will text you as soon as I've landed. If anything should happen, call Mycroft, his number is unblocked now so that shouldn't be a problem." He grabbed his scarf and wound it around his neck.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Don't do anything stupid."

Sherlock chuckled and moved towards John, sipping a bit of tea before handing the cup back.

"I promise."

To say that John was surprised was an understatement. "Wait, what did you just say?"

"I promise not to do anything stupid. I don't want you to worry."

John looked at him, eyes narrowed as if he still couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"John, don't flatter yourself. It's not the first time I'm doing something for someone else."

John finished the tea from Sherlock's cup and turned to carry it into the kitchen. And there he was, stealthy as a cat, right behind him when he turned around. "Though it might just be the first time I'm making a promise that I intend to keep."

A car honked outside, and John could see in the faltering smile on his friend's face that it was the car that was supposed to pick him up. And then Sherlock stepped even closer, pushing his hand into John's hair, pulling him in for a kiss. John wrapped his arms around him, one hand moving over his back and down, pressing him closer. And then Sherlock did something that made John's knees give in, almost. He moved down, bending his knees so his face was lower than John’s and was kissing him passionately and urgently from that angle. The mixture of Sherlock's submission and complete control made John lose his cool. He moaned into Sherlock's mouth, his hand grabbing the fabric of his coat. He had not known that a kiss could do that to him, but he had not known what a great kisser Sherlock was either. He silently cursed Lestrade and his stupid Canadian case.

Sherlock pulled back, looking smug and at the same time breathless. "Good bye, John." And in seconds he was gone, grabbing his suitcase, storming down the stairs. The door fell shut. John leaned back against the counter, holding on to it with both hands, breathing hard. What in the world had Sherlock just done to him?

It took him a while to recompose himself. Knowing Sherlock, he might just forget what had just happened and upon his return would wonder why John would be so eager to kiss him, depending on how many different cases Sherlock would work on during this week. It made him a little sad, but then again he had only ever seen one version of Sherlock, and now the door had been opened he might just see that there was still so much more to find out about him.

All the little details he had tried to ignore in the past because they hit too close to home or just seemed like annoying habits. His behavior around people he disliked or found boring, his mood swings, his rejection of sleep or food, all of these things that he had eventually accepted but never understood started to creep to the surface. Sherlock was far from detached when it came to emotions. It was especially prominent when Mycroft was involved. The childish behavior that sometimes bubbled to the surface, his refusal to speak at all to his brother when he felt that Mycroft did not deserve to be spoken to, and his tendency to pickpocket Lestrade or to mislead him just for the sake of it, and the way he asked John to do the most ridiculous things for him just to test his loyalty. All of those things seemed to stem from the past which John knew nothing about. Well, Sherlock had told him a few segments of his life, but considering the way he was now, growing up must have been painful for him. Having no friends, and a handful of enemies seemed to be his way of coping with the fact that he most probably had always been the odd one out.

John frowned. He did not want to analyse Sherlock, not when he had a week ahead of him where he couldn't talk it through. But Lestrade had said that he had made him better, and that statement in itself made John very happy indeed.


	5. Chapter Five

His phone displayed a new message when John returned to the living room. He let himself fall down on the couch, remembering vividly how impossibly dramatic Sherlock could be when he flung himself onto the thing. John wondered why he had never really hurt himself doing that. It bordered on a miracle, especially after he had shot him.

_Busses are hateful, so are passengers. Journey is dull. Snow everywhere. John!_

John smiled. His name had clearly become something more than just a name, and even though he had very early on liked and eventually loved the way Sherlock said his name, he had never really understood how much more Sherlock expressed when he said it. He was missing him, that much was obvious, but in the end John was glad that he did not have to endure a ten hour bus ride with a bored Sherlock by his side. He did feel a bit sorry for the other passengers, though.

_Be nice to them, Sherlock. They are just as bored as you are._

It only took Sherlock a few seconds to reply.

_Wrong, John, you are so very very wrong._

He had to laugh out loud and typed _I love you_. He stared at the words for a while. It had been so easy to type them, and yet, it was impossible to actually send them. With a sigh, he pressed 'delete' and leaned back, his hand resting on the spot where Sherlock's head usually lay when he was thinking.

He was almost out of credit and would have to go to the shop to buy more because he had never bothered to find out how to do it online. He looked around, trying to figure out what he could do to keep himself occupied. John wanted to go and see Sarah the next morning, but he was not sure whether he would be able to actually go back and work at the surgery, with her. He had been unfair, but, in his defense, he hadn't known better. But now that he had time to think about it he was amazed by her. He knew very well that any other woman would have made his life hell, at least for a little while, and he would have deserved it, too. Public humiliation was the least he would have expected; but Sarah had simply given him the room he desperately needed without knowing it himself.

With a sigh he pushed himself up again and made his way upstairs. Once John was there, he wasn't quite sure why he had come up. Sherlock's door was open, the mess on the floor was impossible to overlook. With a smile he looked down on the chaos, wondering yet again how Sherlock could find anything in there. Ignoring the piles of paper, he walked over to the bed and sat down and then just let himself fall sideways until his face was pressed against Sherlock's pillow. He felt silly for doing it, but he inhaled Sherlock's scent and thought that upon his return, Sherlock's bed would quite possibly host two pillows, one smelling of Sherlock, and one smelling of John. The idea made John tremendously happy and he had to chuckle at his own silly thoughts.

He was a grown man, and although he had been quite the romantic in his past, he had thought that he was beyond grammar school notions of romance in the form of exchanging his jumper for a girl's handkerchief. Yet somehow Sherlock triggered something in him that made all of these things seem not quite as silly as they should be.

He re-read the messages Sherlock had sent him since he had been gone. Sherlock had wisely bought a phone with a lot of memory on it and an additional memory card so he would not have to delete any of the texts. Of course he had not admitted that it was for that reason; he had rather pointed it out as a helpful way of saving important messages that Lestrade would send him so he would be able to go back and read them once he returned. Lestrade had written him exactly one text since the day Sherlock had left.

_I hope you're okay. If anything happens, give me a call. Sherlock will be fine, so don't worry about him. GL_

John had saved it, if only to have one single aberration in his list of received texts. All the others read 'Sherlock'.

He had spent the days waiting, and he knew it was not the best thing to do, but counting down the days to normality seemed much easier than trying to fill them with things unrelated to the latest turn of events. Somehow he thought that if he forgot to worry about Sherlock, even for an instant, something would happen to him.

Maybe it was time to see the therapist again.

_John, entertain me!_

He laughed out loud again. Maybe sitting next to him on that bus would be easier than entertaining him from the distance.

_Running out of credit_

_So you're using it to send me this extraordinarily unimportant message?_

_Well, I can't really help you, can I? Are you being nice to the other passengers?_

_Signal is going. I hate this country and I will kill Lestrade. John, why are you not here? ps: delete this text, could be used against me_

_I miss you Sherlock, I have no more credit, be nice, it's your own fault, I'm waiting for you, hope that helps._

For the next few hours, the phone was silent. John decided that while he was already on the bed, he might as well get some sleep. And it came easily, triggered by the smell on the pillow (what shampoo did Sherlock use? He never noticed his hair smelled so lovely) and the strong physical memory of Sherlock wrapped around him protectively. It was strange, really, because his own physical reaction when he had held Sherlock had been incredibly strong, and yet, if he really thought about it, the most intense moment had been when Sherlock had wrapped himself around him on the morning before their first kiss.

He was woken up by his phone. Two text messages, one from Sherlock, and one from E&E, telling him he needed more credit. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes he opened Sherlock's message.

_Bus stuck due to snow. Hate is not a word strong enough to express what I feel. Calling Mycroft! Need a hug!_

John was grinning like a fool. He felt a bit sorry for Sherlock now, and the request for a hug seemed uncharacteristically sweet. He could imagine Sherlock typing that with his hand over the screen so that the undoubtedly already annoyed passengers on the bus would not be able to read that one last sentence.

He pondered on his option of going back to sleep, but he felt awake now, calculating that it must be early evening in … well, wherever Sherlock was right now. So instead of going back to sleep he went downstairs again, made himself tea and switched on the telly. He listened half heartedly to the documentary on the unhealthy living conditions of the English, chuckling only when someone reported that stress was one of the main reasons for a generally unhealthy diet. Thinking about it, he had not really been better than Sherlock during these past days, eating only when his body was protesting loudly, but otherwise being caught up in thoughts. John realised that he should be worried. He shouldn't be so very dependent on him.

John decided that from tomorrow on, he would be sensible and actually go back to a normal rhythm and be productive and to stop worrying about Sherlock. It had taken him three days to even get to Prince George, and now he was stuck in the middle of nowhere, having to rely on his brother to actually get him to the place where he needed to go. He would deal with the guilty man in the course of a few hours and would probably take another four days until he was back in London. The snow didn't really make things easier.

_John. John. John. John. John. Call Mycroft, he'll get you unlimited credit. Tonight. Now. Do it._

John smiled, but he was not sure whether this was a good idea. It certainly seemed as if Mycroft was in a good enough mood to help Sherlock out and pay for his phone bill, but the Holmes brothers never did anything that did not serve a higher purpose. In this case, John figured, it was either that Sherlock expected him to actually have endless conversations in the form of text messages, or that Mycroft wanted John to keep Sherlock occupied so he wouldn't get bored and do something stupid. Either way, if he accepted the offer, he would not be able to return to a daily routine, and he wasn't sure whether he would sleep at all until Sherlock's return; and possibly he would get even less sleep once he was back. John blushed at the thought.

_Please!_

The grin would never go away, he thought. He was too old to feel like he did, or at least he had figured that he was too old. Sherlock clearly liked proving him wrong, even if he was not there to even know John's thoughts.

_I asked him for you, he had someone top up your phone online. No limit. Try it._

Impossible. Sherlock was impossible, and desperate, obviously.

_It's the middle of the night._

_You can't sleep without me._ A statement, probably typed with an air of stubbornness.

_I did until very recently. I was woken up by someone who is apparently rather bored. Are you okay?_

_I'm offended. I didn't sleep a single minute since I left._ John mentally added the 'you'.

_And that is why you are an idiot. Get some sleep tonight, that's an order. Can't have you break down._

_I don't ever break down from lack of sleep, I'm okay, thanks for asking. Bored, yes, incredibly._

_Where exactly are you? When will you be with the man and solve this "mysterious" case?_

_At dawn, hopefully. Mycroft did not have a helicopter to spare. Sent me a bloody truck and a chattering driver. About to break something._

_Don't. Try to sleep. Time will pass faster._

The phone was silent for a while and John wondered whether Sherlock had actually taken his order seriously. But there was also the nagging feeling that something might have happened. He cursed silently. He should not worry so much, it was ridiculous. Just because Sherlock didn't write back within a minute after his last text it didn't mean that the truck had broken down, crashed into a tree or that someone had kidnapped him.

_Are you still alive?_

He felt silly for writing it, but he needed to be sure.

_You are incredibly predictable, John._

John laughed and decided to stay quiet for some time now to see if Sherlock would end up writing a worried text. He didn't. Instead Sherlock waited half an hour until he texted again.

_Hope I woke you up. Don't sleep when I need you to entertain me. My scar hurts._

That worried John for several reasons. Sherlock apparently felt the need to keep him awake just to spite him. Did he seriously expect him to keep writing throughout the night? He was also very obviously bored, and impatient, which was a dangerous mix. However, the most prominent worry was that Sherlock's wound seemed to actually hurt him, because he wouldn't write about it if he was only bothered slightly. That he addressed it at all worried him.

_How much? Does it look okay? Is it inflamed?_

_I'm not sure. It seems okay, but it still hurts. But maybe it's not the scar alone that hurts. Stomach is upset._

John couldn't believe it. Instead of texting him back, he dialled Sherlock's number, who picked up at the first ring.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, curently not in England. How can I be of help?"

"You bloody idiot, are you trying to kill yourself? When did you last eat?"

"Oh hello, John."

"Sherlock," John noticed how tired he sounded, "what in the world are you doing to yourself."

"The hotel only had ghastly looking food and I didn't feel hungry."

"Sherlock, you do understand that you _need_ food and sleep to actually survive, and that there are no excuses, right?"

"I'm just really not hungry. I tried eating, but then I …"

"What, Sherlock, what happened?"

"Then I had to think of you, and that you’re by yourself in London and …"

John's heart started racing, a knot forming in his stomach. He was familiar with that feeling, he had felt it all those years ago when he had been crushing hard on girls … was Sherlock really suffering from the same sweet anxiety that he had felt back then; butterflies so strong that food just lost its appeal?

"Sherlock." He didn't really know what else to say. If he didn't know better he would think that Sherlock was suffering from romantic oversensitivity. But then again, John was fairly sure that he himself didn't suffer from the same thing just because he forced himself to stay rational about it and tried to not let himself fall too hard. Sherlock was apparently not quite able to deal with the emotional onslaught. Just to think that Sherlock, of all people, was confronted with something that he had no control over made John both nervous and ridiculously happy.

"Sherlock, listen. Concentrate on why you are there and what you are doing. And please, please eat, even if you don't feel like it. You're just away for a while, it's not like …"

"John," Sherlock interrupted him impatiently. "I know all of this. The problem is that it doesn't change the fact that I am here in Canada while I would much rather be in London, making sure that everything is okay there." He didn't say it. He could type it, but he couldn't say it.

"Sherlock, I'm fine. Don't worry about me. I'm here and I will be here when you come back."

Silence on the other end of the phone.

"Sherlock, are you still there?"

"Yes, the problem is, I know you're right but I'm still worried."

John smiled. Slowly, very slowly he started to understand that he was the reason for what Sherlock was going through. All of those moments when he had just felt like kissing him, all of these moments when he had worried and not even let himself imagine what would happen if he would not see Sherlock again, all of these things that had filled his head and heart and had left him shaken and insecure; those things were what made Sherlock loose his appetite and sleep. Not his work, not a strange case that simply made him forget, no, this time _he_ was the reason and he felt strangely flattered by that.

"It'll get getter, eventually."

"How do you know? I might have caught a stomach flu or something equally annoying."

"No, Sherlock, that is not what it is."

"What is it then?" Was he really not able to see the obvious? Had he really never ever felt anything like this for another person? And if he had been interested in John, which he had not exactly admitted to in words, but calling John his case and trying to figure out how John felt about him said just as much, he must have felt the effects of being in love. But maybe Sherlock just functioned very differently than most people did.

"I feel it, too. Not as much, not as strong maybe, not enough to rob me of sleep and appetite, but I know how it feels."

"John, you were sick as well, and maybe I just caught whatever you had."

John chuckled, this was getting ridiculous, and talking about it was dangerous. It meant that he had to admit to his feelings; to tell Sherlock exactly what he felt and then there was no turning back.

"Sherlock, you're …" how to say something that would just sound ridiculous to Sherlock? "It's me. It's what you feel. What's happening to you is what happens when you … fall in love."

"Oh."

John knew he had blushed, and he wanted nothing more than to be there with him, to see his face, to see realisation strike him. It was wrong to do it over the phone, but at least they talked. A text would have been ridiculous.

"That is what it feels like?" He sounded honestly surprised. "John, I'm not sure I want to keep on feeling that. It's uncomfortable and distracting and you are not here to make it go away again."

"Sherlock, that is not how this works. If I was there it would probably be worse. I certainly would feel it much stronger if I was with you."

"Why are you uncomfortable talking about this?"

"What?"

"Well, you clearly have a problem describing how you feel."

John stared into nothing. Was Sherlock being serious? He was at a loss for words.

"John? Talk to me."

"I …"

"John? What is it? Are you alright, have I said something wrong?"

"No, Sherlock, you haven't said anything wrong. It's just that …"

He could hear that Sherlock was being frustrated with his stuttering about and he knew that there was only one way out of the situation into which Sherlock had gracefully steered him without realising it.

"I love you."

"Well, so far so obvious."

"Sherlock!"

"What now?"

"You know, where I come from, this is a big deal, you don't just go about saying it, not for a long time, not before you are sure …" he trailed off, feeling vulnerable and somewhat upset with Sherlock for not recognising the significance those three words had for him.

"John, why are you upset? I know how you feel, I thought that was clear. I had no idea that apparently you aren't sure about that. And I think a year qualifies as _long_." _A year, had Sherlock just said a year?_ "No, I am sure. I just … God, why do you have to be so …"

"Intellectually superior?"

"Don't be ridiculous." John couldn't keep the smile out of his voice. "That's not the word I was looking for."

"I'm sorry, John, I do realise that you have difficulties expressing how you feel. But of all the things you could feel, I think that your feelings for me are fairly obvious. I just didn't know that _love_ would feel like this. It didn’t feel like this before."

John could barely breathe. Sherlock had just done his best to take any romantic connotation out of those words, but the chance that Sherlock might actually say them to him had him sitting on the edge of the bed, biting his lip.

"It will change, you will be able to eat and sleep again. But are you telling me that you have never felt like this before?"

The distance made it surreal, this conversation that seemed so very cliché and which made him very self-conscious. "No, John, I have not felt anything like this before. The only feeling that is remotely similar is a stomach flu, so that is why I figured it had to be that. But the scar does hurt a bit, although that might be your fault as well."

John laughed. "My fault, because I shot you?"

"No, it only hurts when I think of you."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Do you think it might be psychosomatic?"

John wanted to laugh, but in the end it seemed like the only logical explanation. "That might be the case, yes."

"I still wish you were here. I am positive I would feel better."

"Sherlock, please, I know that you are incredibly bored and anxious for something to happen, but try to stay calm and for Christ's sake, eat something and then get some sleep."

"Are you tired?"

"Yes, and I will hang up on you now. Mycroft will not be amused to see how much money I spent just to chat with you about butterflies."

"Butterflies? John, what are you talking about?"

John laughed, loudly, breathlessly, and in that moment he missed Sherlock so much it hurt. "It's what it's called, the feeling that you have that keeps you from eating and sleeping."

"You don't expect me to understand that, do you?"

"No, I don't. I'm going to let you go now."

"Can I still text you when I get bored?"

"Yes, but don't be surprised if I don't answer. I might be asleep."

"Fine."

"Sherlock, promise me …"

"I already did. I haven't done anything stupid as you call it, I have not destroyed anything and I have not offended anyone … who did not deserve it."

"I miss you. I'm going to hang up now. Good night, Sherlock." He felt already saddened by the prospect of not being able to hear Sherlock talk as soon as he ended the phone call.

"Good night, John." And John was about to press 'end call' when Sherlock coughed somewhat nervously. "And John?"

"Yes?"

"I do love you, you know? Just in case you were wondering, which I know you were not, but still …"

Suddenly John was overwhelmed with butterflies in his stomach, as if he really had just been waiting for Sherlock to say the words to set them free. His hand was shaking and he was sure that he would never ever stop grinning again.

"Thank you."

"Good night, John."


	6. Chapter Six

John woke up late. Somehow he had moved to lie on his stomach, clutching Sherlock's pillow like a life saver. The dream was still etched onto his eye lids and he was unable to shake off the feeling that something bad had happened. Cursing, John pushed himself up and fished his phone from Sherlock's nightstand. Ten new messages; so everything was alright.

The shower managed to wake him up and when he stood in the kitchen, only a towel around his hips, he had all but forgotten the nightmare. Sipping his tea he read through the messages.

_Almost there. Sleep tight._

_Lake frozen over, you might actually enjoy it here, snow and such._

John smiled, remembering their little snow fight. He would get his revenge once Sherlock was back.

_Found the cabin. The man is gone, was warned, presumably. Finally something interesting._

John sighed and walked over to the window, looking out. It was snowing lightly again, so there would be no sun today either. How could Sherlock actually like the fact that things got more difficult. Oh right, that was how Sherlock worked.

_Have unearthed proof and sent it away with the driver. Alone now, waiting._

He had sent the driver away? John couldn't quite ignore the anxious feeling that settled in his stomach. Being by himself in the middle of nowhere in the house of a man who had managed to burn a fortune just for the sake of it and who had been warned of Sherlock's coming definitely counted as stupid.

_Tired now. Should have listened to you. Will see what he has in the fridge._

_Nothing edible. Sorry._

_John_

_I like typing your name, John._

John giggled. Apparently Sherlock wasn't too bored yet.

_I think he's coming. Don't text or call me, I will hide. DON'T WORRY!_

Now this was anything but comforting, but he would not call or text him if he would endanger Sherlock.

_Rather nice chap, actually. Thinking about letting him go._

John frowned. That seemed somewhat out of character. Considering the fact that he had texted him again, John decided that the call and text ban had been lifted and dialled Sherlock's number. His tea cup fell from his hand when an unfamiliar voice answered. "Hello?"

"Who are you?" Cold fear gripped him and he moved back to sit down, praying that the events that played out in his mind were not real. "I'm trying to reach Sherlock Holmes," he added, hoping he did not sound too shocked.

"Yes, yes, he is here but he is currently unable to speak to you."

"What did you do to him?" He should have known that something would happen. Sherlock had a talent for getting himself into trouble and he should have insisted to come along. And he should have read the last message first, because he had wasted precious time since it had been written.

"I didn't do anything to him," the voice on the other side said, sounding somewhat surprised.

"Why can't I speak to him then?"

"He's asleep."

"What?" Well, that was anti-climactic. "You don't mean that metaphorically, do you?"

The voice on the other end laughed. "No, I don't. He is asleep. He told me to talk to you in case you called."

John stared at the wall, eyes wide. What in the world?

"Okay, listen. I'm sorry about all of this. I promise that I did not do anything to him. He was here when I came home, and he disarmed me before I could shoot him." John did not want to hear that there was a weapon involved. His hands were sweating. "I was surprised, that's all. I was out hunting, so I was not planning on shooting anyone. Good thing his reflexes were faster than mine. Well, anyway, he told me why he is here and we had dinner and now he is asleep. Said it were his doctor's orders."

John wanted to ask the man to wake Sherlock up, but something in his voice made John believe him. And Sherlock certainly would not just fall into the trap of trusting a bank robber, no matter how trouble prone he was.

"He said to tell you not to worry."

"Well, that is very thoughtful of him. But, from what he told me, he can't let you go." What in the world was going on?

"I know, but we worked out an alibi."

"Oh God, Sherlock." He had not meant to say that out loud. Mycroft and Lestrade would kill Sherlock if he actually went through with the plan.

The man chuckled. "He's been rather helpful."

"Undoubtedly. Why does he trust you? He was sent to arrest you and now he decides to switch over to your side? That's typical."

The voice was quiet for a while. "Actually, I have no idea. After disarming me he sat me down and started telling me about his plan; and that plan is really very decent."

"But you stole all that money and burned it."

"I wonder how he knew that."

"He just does, he's brilliant like that, but that doesn't answer my question."

"Yes, I did, but it was for a bet, nothing more. Nobody got hurt …"

"Except for the traumas you caused the people you threatened while you were doing it? And the money that you stole, that was a lot of money, and you cost the British tax payers quite a lot because of the ongoing investigation and now even more because they sent someone to Canada to find you!" _while he could just as well be home with me_ , he added silently.

"Well, as far as I understood, I was not responsible for the cost of the investigation of the last few years, considering that your friend here knew about it all this time without giving me away."

"That will be all," John could hear Sherlock's voice in the background.

"What?" Honest surprise from the man.

John heard a muffled sound and then a sharp metallic click and a curse. A little breathless, but nevertheless smug, Sherlock's voice filled John's ears: "Lestrade, does that suffice as proof?"

And that was when John understood that his shiny new phone had some special features that he had known nothing about. And what was worse than being left in the dark about this was the fact that Lestrade, or, to make it even worse, someone else from the Yard had listened to their conversation the night before.

John was breathless and mad, more so than was reasonable, and, unable to fight down the sudden urge, he threw the phone against the wall. He knew he was being immature, and in the end it all made perfect sense; the fact that he had been supposed to stay put, the fact that Lestrade had not been in touch with him, the fact that Mycroft had supplied unlimited credit ...

The phone was not only expensive, but also robust enough to survive the collision with the wall. John stared at it. For a moment he hated Sherlock for all his brilliancy and ability to manipulate. He should have known that even he was not safe from being drawn into the line of fire when Sherlock was on a case, and being emotionally involved, even more so than normally, made things very hard for him. John wondered whether Sherlock had even considered that this might be an embarrassing situation for him and then, which caused his hands to clench into fists, whether he had planned the whole episode, knowing fully well that John would do exactly what he expected him to do.

Sherlock sitting in the bathroom, lost in thoughts; he should have known. Why didn't Sherlock trust him with things like that? He had promised to fill him in, he had promised to tell him next time. He could have just as well played his part if he had known about it before Sherlock had gone away. But sitting there, glaring at the phone didn't help much at all. He got up and picked up the phone. _One text message received._

Biting his lower lip he opened it.

_Sorry!_

John was breathing hard. He knew that if Sherlock had been present in the living room right now he would have yelled at him like no one had ever yelled at him before and he would have tried to hurt Sherlock on purpose, just to make up for being used, exposed and out of control like this. When he tasted his own blood he decided that it was a good thing that Sherlock was not here and that he could not yell at him or hurt him, because he would regret hurting him for the rest of his days. Sherlock must have known that it was not the best way of going about it in terms of their relationship, but for the case it had obviously been the perfect solution. In that moment John lost his love for logical thinking.

He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to fifty, forcing his breathing to slow. He hated that he got so worked up over this, that it affected him so much and that it brought out a side in him that he barely even knew himself. When he felt calm enough to formulate coherent thoughts, he called Sherlock's number. The ringing seemed endless and he knew that Sherlock tried to avoid talking to him, otherwise he would have picked up long ago. Eventually Sherlock's voice mail message filled the silence and he had to close his eyes, finding it suddenly very hard to stay mad at him. For a few seconds he just listened to the silence, unable to say anything, but eventually he drew a deep breath: "Bloody idiot."

It didn't make him feel better and now he was afraid that Sherlock might not get in touch with him until he returned home. So against his better judgment, John dialled the number again. After the third ring, Sherlock picked up. "John."

"Lestrade, if you're listening to this, get the fuck away from the headphones. And don't you dare record this. I can't believe you made a fool of me like this." The last part was not solely meant for the DI.

"John, he's gone."

"Sherlock, why the bloody hell would you do something like this?"

"John, I know you think that he's been listening the entire time, but that is not the case. Last night was just between us, I promise."

John felt his anger leave him, but he still felt betrayed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock took his time answering, and John could practically see him shift from one foot to the other. "He is gifted."

"What?"

"Carl, he is gifted. He knows when you tell a lie, he can tell by the tone of your voice."

John closed his eyes, fighting a headache that started to sneak up on him. Why in the world did Sherlock always have a good explanation? No matter what happened, Sherlock would always manage to talk himself out of the trouble he got himself into, most of the time anyway. "I couldn't tell you because he would have known."

John fought hard to stay objective. "But how did he not know that you lied?"

The smile was evident in Sherlock's voice, as if he was proud that John asked the right question and gave him the opportunity to explain the problem. "I only told him the truth. I told him I had been sent to take him down. I told him how I had come here and that I was supposed to get a confession out of him. Then I told him that I was tired and that I had not eaten in days, so he made me dinner."

"And you trusted him? I mean, he could have poisoned you!"

"He had caught a rabbit and prepared it while I watched. We should go hunting some time, by the way, it tasted much better than the Sainsbury meat. But there was no way he could have poisoned it while I was here and then I let him eat first. I told you not to worry."

John wanted to bang his head against the wall in an attempt to get rid of the headache and to make Sherlock see that this was not how things worked.

"After dinner I told him about you." He sounded nervous, just a tiny bit, and John wondered what he had confessed to the man to get him on his side. The truth, obviously, and John knew he would probably go and visit the man in jail if only to make him tell what Sherlock had said about him. "And then I texted you while he watched. He didn't realise I knew he watched, but you can't really tell by the tone of a text message if there is a lie in it, and then you did exactly what I wanted you to do."

"There, Sherlock, this is exactly the problem. You calculated my reaction. That is not okay, not when I'm not in on the joke." He felt desperate to get his point across and he hated being upset with Sherlock who had only done what he did best.

"I'm sorry, John."

"I know, but it still doesn't make things okay. How can I trust you when I always have to worry about you using me for the greater good, or whatever you think I might be helpful with."

"But it worked out, didn't it? And I didn't let Lestrade listen to us, not yesterday, and not now."

"That is not the point."

"John, you are being unreasonable."

There was no way he would be able to explain himself, because Sherlock simply would not understand; but he desperately needed him to understand. What he was feeling was irrational and emotional and personal, all things that were pretty much foreign concepts to Sherlock.

"Come home, okay? We have to talk about this, but I need a bit of time to think this over."

"Not us, though. You don't have to think us over?" John was very tempted to say that yes, that was indeed what he needed to think about, but in the end he knew that there was no way that this would make him feel less drawn to Sherlock. It also did not mean that he trusted him any less, despite his words. What he did know, however, was that it frustrated him endlessly and that things would be much easier if Sherlock was here with him so he could make him understand. He just wanted him home.

"Sherlock."

"John, please. What do you mean? Don't be angry with me." He sounded entirely out of his depth. 

"Well, I am angry with you, and I'm angry with Lestrade, and with Mycroft, and everyone who was involved in this thing while I knew nothing about it."

"But you knew everything about it, except for the last bit. I told you I would tell you everything you needed to know."

"Just come home."

"You will be there when I get home?" John hated that his stomach clenched almost painfully at the underlying fear in Sherlock's voice, and he hated it even more that he could hear himself smile as he answered him. "Oh, bloody hell, of course I will be here."

An exhale, quietly, as if Sherlock was trying to hide it from John. "I'm sorry I upset you, John, but I did eat something," he added, obviously trying to lighten the mood, and John wanted nothing more than to hug him close and tell him off for being silly.

"I've got to go."

"Okay."

"Idiot."

"My John."

John hung up before he had time to respond to the sudden emotional notion, and for a second he cursed himself for pushing the button too fast. But he knew that calling back now would seem silly so he put the phone away and walked upstairs to get dressed.


	7. Chapter Seven

At the surgery, John felt almost normal again. He dreaded seeing Sarah again, but he also knew that he needed to talk to her and try to explain. This time he had thought of flowers and when he walked past the receptionist, she narrowed her eyes at him, making it clear that everyone knew about his unacceptable behavior.

After the last patient before lunch break had left Sarah's room, John knocked, mentally preparing to be yelled at; an irrational thought, though, because Sarah was not a woman who would get loud.

He entered, not quite knowing what to do and what to say, and there she was, staring at him from behind her desk, frozen as she was wrapping a scarf around her neck. "John," she said eventually, and moved away from her desk and towards him and then drew him into her arms, pushing the door closed behind him.

"Are you okay?" She moved back to be able to see his face. "I was so worried." Just a tad accusing, and John felt incredibly guilty. Of course, he could have called, and he should have. But he had been preoccupied with being confused about his feelings and just being glad to be alive. Sarah had simply not been on his radar.

"Can I take you out for lunch?"

She frowned at him, but nodded. "Please do." Sarah took the flowers and placed them carefully on her desk. "I will tell Gertie to get a vase."

Outside, she pulled him close, linking their arms, and even though John liked the familiarity of it, he did not want to get her hopes up; not now, not after what had happened.

The little café served soup and sandwiches and Sarah asked about his flu, ready to order chicken soup for him, but he assured her that he would be happy with some sandwiches. A few minutes into lunch, he still hadn't found the right words to start explaining himself, but Sarah, as always, was incredibly patient with him.

Eventually, she took his hand and gave him a gentle squeeze. "What happened, John?"

John picked up his tea cup, taking a sip just to carefully place it on the table in front of him again. "I think I fell in love with him."

Judging by her face, this was definitely not what she had expected him to say. But really, it was the most important fact; not the whole episode of the library, but the reason why he had acted so out of character around her. "When I was talking to you and you … you said these things about me, and him, about us, I realised you were right. I mean, I didn't know _how_ right until much later, but ..."

He didn't quite know how to put it.

"In love, really? With him?" She seemed to believe him, but obviously couldn't imagine that anyone could fall in love with Sherlock Holmes. "And what about him?" she asked, looking slightly worried.

John knew he blushed, scarlet, and the grin was back, that stupid grin that just didn't want to go away again, no matter how mad he had been at Sherlock earlier. That was all the answer she needed. "Okay. This is extremely weird. I've never had to break up with someone who left me for another man, especially not for a man like him."

"I didn't know I felt that way. I mean, I didn't know he felt that way. But you were finally saying what you were feeling and that put everything into perspective, I think. That, and the fact that he and I almost died."

"Yes, I was wondering about that. Detective Inspector Lestrade was rather worried when he showed up at your flat, which did not really help me and Mrs Hudson to calm down. And when you called, he first thought you were talking in code." She chuckled, but he could see that the memory was painful. "But I knew that even though you seemed confused, you were not saying this to fool anyone. I think he was more shocked than I was when you sent that text afterwards."

John wanted to tell her how mad he was at Lestrade for plotting behind his back, but he figured that Sarah wasn't really the one to talk to about that. "I am really very sorry."

"I know, John, I know. But at least you seem to know what you want now, which is a relief. I was really close to planning my life with you, you know? But in the end it never seemed realistic, because he just didn't fit in there. I think I always knew that he wouldn't just go away."

John rested his chin on his hand and looked at her. "You know, I was really not myself that day and I know I said some really hurtful things, and you don't deserve that. I mean, you almost got killed on our first date and you still went out on a second date with me and many more after, so that had to mean something, right? And I know that you would have been the one … if my life was just that tiny bit different."

She smiled at him. "A tiny bit, huh? If only." But then she frowned and looked at him a little worried. "Where is he then?"

"Well, I wouldn't bring him on a date with you, would I?" They both had to laugh at that, heartily.

"By now he usually would have shown up or sent a text or called or …"

"He's in Canada, solving a case for Lestrade."

"And you're here?"

Women, John thought, had an extraordinary sense in finding the sore points in men without even trying.

"I don't want to talk about it." He was being unfair again, especially since she obviously did care about his well-being, but somehow talking about feeling sorry for himself didn't seem a very manly thing to do. It was bad enough that Sherlock had to deal with his hurt pride, he didn't want to make Sarah suffer that as well.

"Did you two fight?"

Okay, so much for not talking about it. "No, not really. It's just … he … used me in a way to solve a case and I just felt betrayed because I expected him to tell me about it."

The 'I told you so stare' was not welcome, but expected. "I'm not saying that I thought he wouldn't do that, but I had just hoped that now that we're …"

"Together?" Sarah tried to help him along.

"Yes, together, I thought that he might include me more. I don't know." He rubbed his face. "I think I just forgot who he is for a while, how he is. I shouldn't be so surprised. I mean, I've been dealing with his unorthodox ways for more than a year and I was annoyed most of the time, but now it just felt like it's more personal, you know?"

"John, did you really think that you could change him? I mean, he crashed almost every date we were on, and I don't even want to think about his motives now, but he did, and he never understood why that would be unacceptable. He does not understand what is right and what is wrong when it comes to normal human behavior. I mean, I'm not saying that he is completely mad, but he has no sense of decency and he never thinks about the emotional consequences of his actions. But I understand that you hoped he would be different with you, and I'm sure he is, at least a bit, because he seemed to at least listen to you when you told him things are not usually done the way he does them."

John looked a little bewildered. Maybe he should have talked more about these issues with Sarah rather than about patients and silly television shows, because she seemed to understand a great deal more of his emotional turmoil than he himself did.

"So, I suggest you stop worrying. Whenever he comes back you can tell him that you feel like this is not the right way to go about it, but don't expect him to really change. I guess the fact that he will listen to you and probably apologise says a lot about your influence on him. It is more than he will ever do for anybody else."

"You are a life saver, you know that?" He was truly amazed, and also a little embarrassed by that feeling.

Sarah finished her coffee and then started to get up. "I have to go back. Will you come back and work or do you want me to let you go?"

John cringed at the last phrase, realising it implied more than just losing his job. "I think I'd rather stay at home for a while and help him with his paperwork."

"You worry about him, don't you?"

"Because he is so incredibly stupid sometimes!" He sounded exasperated, but couldn't help but smile. "I don't think I'm ready to go back to work and I think I would find it difficult working with you." And at the faltering smile on her face he added quickly, "because they all hate me now and know how badly I treated you and it would be very uncomfortable. And with me gone, they can at least gossip about me a bit." He scrunched up his face, which made her smile.

"John, I'm not out of the world, you know? You can always come and talk to me if you feel like it."

"Thank you, Sarah. You're an angel." John paid and opened the door for her.

"I do miss you, John."

He pursed his lips, not quite knowing what to answer to that.

"Good bye." She kissed him, on the lips, but too quickly for him to respond, so all that was left for him was to watch her go. Well, he thought to himself, he did not quite deserve for her to be so civil, so maybe he should swallow his pride and be nice to Sherlock instead of being unreasonably hurt.

On his way back he decided to cook supper for himself and Mrs Hudson. The fridge was still full and their landlady would probably know how to keep him entertained with gossip and bad telly. Grinning, he kicked at some snow, watching it explode into a white cloud in midair.

"John?"

He froze and then slowly turned around, keeping his hands in his pockets.

"Hi."

Lestrade was looking at him, an unreadable expression on his face. "Hello John."

He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself but sound offended. "Before we start the small talk, could you do me a favour and stop calling me that?"

Lestrade looked a bit taken aback and John understood that he probably had no idea why he was mad at him. "I apologise. I didn't think it would be an issue after …"

"After you practically listened to my private phone conversations? No, really, never mind, why don't you install a camera in our bedroom?"

Lestrade obviously wanted to defend himself, but as he spoke, John could see understanding dawning on his face. However, when he mentioned the bedroom, Lestrade's eyebrow rose dangerously high.

"Bedrooms," John hastily added, feeling himself blush again, knowing perfectly well that the effect of his little speech was now lost.

Lestrade, being his usual reserved self, didn't say a word about it. "Do you want to sit down somewhere?"

"No, I just had lunch. With Sarah. The breakup talk, you know."

"I was thinking more about beer?"

"It's just two o'clock."

"Well, the case is closed, so I took the day off. Do you have any pressing duties?" Lestrade clearly knew that he had been immobile those last few days.

"No."

"You're obviously upset, and I have a hunch that I know what this is about, so I guess I do owe you a pint or two."

John unclenched his fists and nodded. "Very well then, if you have no other commitments."

They walked to _The Duke of York_ and sat down in the back. Except for two Japanese tourists who giggled into their Guinness they were alone. Sherlock would be able to tell them their whole life story, John thought, again realising how lonely he felt without him by his side. "What are you having?"

"Whatever you'll have." John shrugged, wondering whether this was a good idea. Probably not.

When Lestrade came back and placed the lager in front of him, he smiled, dutifully, but avoided looking at him.

"Do you really mind if I call you John?"

"I only mind if you switch back and forth without any real reason."

"Alright then," he held out his hand towards John, "Greg."

John raised an eyebrow but took his hand. "Hi Greg. I'm John."

Lestrade chuckled and picked up his glass. "We should have done that a while ago, I guess."

"Get pissed in the middle of the day?"

Bursting into laughter Lestrade had to put down his beer again. John relaxed. "Yeah, that."

After a while, John sighed and leaned forward. "Don't take this the wrong way, but what made you think it was a good idea to tap my phone?"

Lestrade shrugged, dragging his finger through the ring of beer his glass had left on the table. "We didn't tap your phone, but his. He explained how he would go about it and that's exactly what happened. I simply did not think that it might be a problem. I do see that it might have been a little strange for you, not knowing that I was there on the other end, and that Sherlock was just trying to get him to sing …"

"God." John rubbed his face. "Does that mean that I can never be sure whether you're listening in on our phone conversations? Because we might have said things that were not necessarily meant for your ears, or anybody's ears, except for his and mine."

Lestrade couldn't help but grin. "You are making me curious. I'd love to have something to blackmail him with." Then, slightly less amused. "You didn't … you know…"

"No, God no." John frowned at the thought, which was not necessarily a bad one. "We're not…" He waved his hand around.

"Ah…" Relieved?

"Anyway," John cleared his throat, "I'd just like to know that I have at least a tiny bit of my privacy left."

"Yeah, well, we don't have you under surveillance. You would have to pick that fight with someone else, but I'm pretty sure that you can't win on that one. I wouldn't even be surprised to learn that your phone and radio are bugged and that someone records your every move, inside and outside of your flat."

"Brilliant, you're now making me paranoid."

"Well, I wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft Holmes had bugs in my home as well."

"Great, just great." John finished his beer. "I'll buy the next round."


	8. Chapter Eight

The next two days, John didn't hear from Sherlock, just as he had feared. He had told him before he had left; he had told him that he was stubborn. John should pay better attention when Sherlock chose to declare something about himself that involved emotions. But, allowing himself some stubbornness on his own, John did not text or call Sherlock either. He knew he was being really rather silly and that Sherlock probably had a good reason to not get in touch with him, but John thought that he'd rather be stubborn now that Sherlock was away than when he was back. God, he missed him.

On Saturday, Mycroft sent a car to pick John up on his way home from New Scotland Yard where he had delivered a folder with files and John greeted Anthea enthusiastically, which caused her to stop typing and look at him surprised.

"Your sister is much more talkative, you know?" He knew that trying to have a conversation with her was futile, but he suddenly felt much more at home in her presence than he had before.

She did not answer, but he could see a small smile on her lips in the reflection of the car window. John did not ask her where they were going and when the car stopped, he found himself in yet another deserted factory hall.

"Mycroft."

"John." He sounded positively happy to see him. "I'm so glad you could come."

"I sometimes wonder what would happen if I didn't," John answered, squaring his shoulders.

Mycroft just smiled his nonchalant smile and then drew an invisible circle on the floor with his umbrella. "I heard that you've made some calls to Canada?"

What was he aiming at? John had no idea what to expect, but one thing was certain; that Mycroft knew exactly what was going on.

"I also heard that you have not made use of the opportunity for exactly fifty hours?"

"Did you bring me here to ask me to call Sherlock?"

"No, I could have sent that message in a different fashion. I am here to ask for the reason."

"The reason is private, I don't think …"

"John," Mycroft interrupted him, sounding unusually impatient. "We are beyond that, don't you think?"

John decided to just stare at him.

"You have questions?" Mycroft could read him like a book. For a second John wondered if there were any other super-human Holmes siblings irritating someone in a different part of the world; he had never asked Sherlock.

"Do you have any cameras or other recording devices in our home?"

"Home, ah, yes." John's eyes narrowed, but Mycroft smiled, leaning forward just to swing back a second later. His happy attitude was unnerving. "Sherlock forbade such intrusion shortly after you moved in."

"He forbade it? That doesn't mean than you wouldn't do it anyway, does it?"

"I had no need for such things after you decided to stay. I knew he trusted you, so I knew I could trust you, too."

Somehow, this was turning into something bigger than he had expected. "So that's a no, then?"

Mycroft smiled down on him. "Yes."

"But you know why I did not call Sherlock?" It was unlikely that Mycroft missed anything concerning his brother. "Why am I really here?"

The tall man tipped his head to the left side in an eerie mirror image of Sherlock's mannerism. "You do understand that his work will always come first? You have become part of his work, so figuratively speaking, you also come first, but considering recent events, I thought you should be made aware of that again."

Was Mycroft going to tell him what both Sarah and Lestrade had told him before; that Sherlock could not be changed beyond the degree that he had changed since he met him? "I am very aware of that."

"But you don't act accordingly."

"And what would you suggest would be the right thing to do?" John knew he sounded annoyed, and he did not want to end up being angry again, he was tired of being angry, he just wanted to go back to … normal. Only that normalcy was exactly the problem, because it meant that nothing would change and that his emotions would not interfere with Sherlock's work. He had missed that normalcy so much that he had forgotten all the little annoyances and quirks that came with it. All those moments when he snatched his laptop from Sherlock's hands because he had yet again used it without asking; when the milk bottle sat empty in the fridge and John knew that Sherlock had walked past the shop; when there were scratches or burns on the kitchen table and Sherlock refused to tell him how they had gotten there. He and Sherlock were completely different, and Sherlock had driven him mad more often than he could remember. But Sherlock had also been frustrated with him, annoyed at times, because he wouldn't see the obvious, because shopping for food and caring about murder victims were things beyond his intellectual horizon. Those things had defined the past year. There had always been conflict, and now he had just expected all of this to be gone?

With a frown he realised that he really did not want things to change. Sometimes he needed to be annoyed with Sherlock, needed to be mad at him, exasperated, and at the end of his wits just as he needed to tell Sherlock off when he behaved anything but civil or to refuse cooperation, even if Sherlock always found a way to make him change his mind in the end. With Sherlock, he could act out conflict, he could show his teeth and be mad without having to fear anything else than the endless frustration when Sherlock proved him wrong yet again and maybe a bit of horrific violin playing. What scared him now was the force with which he had thrown the phone against the wall, the passion he had felt, the anger that seemed to come from a place that he did not want to go to, ever. He had opened himself up to Sherlock and let down his guard. It was only natural that he was bound to get hurt. But in the end he wanted to be vulnerable around Sherlock. He wanted to trust Sherlock, and he would be disappointed again and again, but that always happened in a relationship. He had been spoiled by Sarah, really, but he had been in relationships where he had been badly hurt, on purpose and not accidentally. And this time he would gladly accept being hurt and disappointed if it meant that he could be with Sherlock, because there was no way that he would let him go again, now that he had him.

When John looked up at Mycroft, he could see him smile.

"Have a good day, John." And, happily swinging his umbrella, he wandered off.

The car took him home and he thought carefully about his realisation. How in the world had Mycroft been able to tell that John would come to a satisfying conclusion? He was just as brilliant and manipulative as Sherlock. Thank god Sherlock had no umbrella to swing around.

Grinning, he climbed out of the car and unlocked the front door to 221B Baker Street. Home it was, yes, but not without Sherlock in it.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter in the second part of the series; the next part will follow soon.  
> Thanks for reading. Please leave feedback if you liked it. xx

Sherlock lay on the couch, sleeping. John's heart almost stopped when he saw him there, peaceful, almost smiling in his sleep. John's laptop sat on the table, the screen saver text floating across the screen. John briefly wondered where his fish tank screen saver had gone, but knew that Sherlock had probably gotten bored with it and changed it.

He hung up his coat and then moved closer, trying to catch the writing on the screen.

 _Property of John Watson_ it read, and John could feel his heart flutter. "Damn you, Sherlock Holmes," he whispered with a smile.

Knowing that Sherlock had probably not slept for six days, he let him sleep. Sherlock had attempted to make tea but never had gotten around to pour water over the tea bags and when John felt the kettle, it was luke warm. He couldn't have been home for long then, so he would have to be extra quiet to not wake him up. John thought about going upstairs, but decided against it. Instead, he carefully picked up his laptop and sat down in his chair, intending to watch Sherlock sleep, because, quite frankly, it was a beautiful sight to behold. Heavens, now he thought of Sherlock as beautiful? But had he ever really thought of him as anything else?

He absentmindedly drew his finger over the touchpad of his computer and when the screensaver disappeared and revealed the window that had been open, his focus shifted to the screen.

Sherlock had been reading John's blog, but John had not updated in a while, not since the library, really. It made him think back and wonder why he had the blog entries printed out in his room. Sherlock hadn't really complained anymore, and only occasionally commented on the trivialities that John typed out that had apparently nothing to do with the actual deduction, but he had given up trying to dictate him what to write. John scrolled down the list of comments, and, at the very bottom he found an anonymous comment made up of seemingly random numbers.

He raised an eyebrow and looked at Sherlock's sleeping form, wondering whether it was his comment or whether he had been trying to read the message. Sherlock knew too many codes for John to figure out which one was used here without intense research. With a sigh he turned to the skull, but, as always, the skull did not give away any of Sherlock's secrets.

So instead of watching his sleeping friend, John started to try to figure out the message. After an hour of typing out the numbers in any possible order and not getting anywhere, and after typing the message into all kinds of internet search engines, checking for possible clues, he decided to let it go. Before he closed his computer, he changed the password to 'I_love_you.' Sherlock would undoubtedly make fun of him for choosing such an easy password to hack, but he didn't care. In the end, no password had ever kept Sherlock from using John's computer, and now he would make him smile, at least.

"John?"

He jumped, realising that he must have fallen asleep a while ago.

"John!" Sherlock was up in a flash and over the table, pulling him out of his chair and into his arms. John needed a few seconds to gather his wits, remembering somewhere in the back of his mind that he had planned on chiding Sherlock before their first hug, but that seemed like a very stupid plan now. He also remembered that he had dreaded the moment when he would want some attention and Sherlock would be ignorant of that need. Apparently, he had been very wrong about that as well.

"John." Sherlock's vocabulary seemed alarmingly reduced. John chuckled.

"Hey there."

"I'm sorry. Are you still mad? Don't be mad. I came home and you were not here." The last sentence made John hold on tighter as he remembered Sherlock asking him to be home.

"I had no idea you'd be coming back today."

"I know, I should have told you, but I thought that if I told you, you might leave on purpose."

John pushed him away and took Sherlock's face in his hands, his thumbs gently tracing his cheek bones. Irrational thinking was not something Sherlock did. "Did you really think that?"

"I don't know what to think anymore. You were mad at me. It all made sense at first and then suddenly it didn't." Well, seeing and hearing how much it troubled Sherlock that he might be mad at him, he couldn't really stay mad at all … or whatever he had felt that had made him throw the phone against the wall. It now seemed like a shadow in his memory, something far off and unpleasant that happened in another time and place.

"Sherlock, I … I'm not mad at you, not really. Not anymore."

A small smile revealed Sherlock's relief. Mycroft had obviously not found it necessary to inform Sherlock about John's revelation. "How was your trip back?"

"John, can we not do that?"

"Do what?"

"I was so worried you would … I don't know … be mad, get loud, move out?" Surprised, John understood that Sarah had not been entirely right and that she had not given Sherlock enough credit. He clearly cared for John's opinion, that much he had long since established, but he obviously also feared upsetting John and would just possibly try to make it alright again. John could feel his ears burn.

"Have I ever really considered moving out? Sherlock, I was mad at you, yes, but it doesn't mean that I would leave you. It also doesn't mean that I would care about you any less … it quite possibly means the opposite."

Instead of an answer, Sherlock took off his jacket and then started unbuttoning his shirt. Now that was definitely an unexpected turn of events. John's breath caught when Sherlock got rid of his shirt, dropping it carelessly behind him and reaching out to pull at John's jumper. When John did not react right away, Sherlock blushed, his eyes searching his face for something to make sense of. John could see Sherlock's breath quicken and goose bumps spreading over his naked skin under his stare. John was incredibly aroused, but he knew that he needed to make Sherlock see that he was not mad, maybe slightly irritated, but sex would not be helpful right now.

"Sherlock?"

"John?" He still sounded insecure, but he also seemed determined to undress John as his hand was still lingering on the rim of John's jumper, tugging lightly.

"Sherlock, can we please talk about this with our clothes on?"

"Why?"

John chuckled. "Do you really think I could formulate a coherent thought with you naked right in front of me?"

"And I was hoping that we might think a little less and feel a little more? Isn't that what you wanted from me?"

His fingers tugged again, more insisting now. John forced himself to look at Sherlock's face. He knew that Sherlock was aroused just as much as he was, and he knew that if he let himself get lost in that train of thought he wouldn't even be able to start explaining himself. And he wasn't sure whether Sherlock was just manipulating him in order to avoid that discussion or whether he really just wanted to forget about it and for once do what his body told him and not his brain.

But then he thought about Mycroft's comment about appropriate behavior and found that Sherlock's insecurity might actually be a bigger problem than his pride, and so he stepped closer, watching as Sherlock rocked back on his heels as if the movement towards him had compressed the air between them, pushing Sherlock away a bit.

Then Sherlock closed the gap between them, pulling John's jumper over his head just to start unbuttoning John's shirt with nimble fingers. When Sherlock's hands gently moved over the bare skin of his stomach, John could feel himself shiver. Sherlock stopped his movement and looked at John's face, breathing heavily. Without a word, John leaned in to kiss him.

The moan that he drew from Sherlock was surprisingly loud, and John thought that they should probably move upstairs so Mrs Hudson wouldn't be disturbed - in every sense of the word. Sherlock, however, had a very different idea. Working John's shirt over his shoulders, he pushed it down. Not having bothered to unbutton the cuffs, John's wrists got caught in them and suddenly he found himself restrained, Sherlock turning him around so he could properly hold onto the make-shift handcuffs. John's mind blanked and the only thought that was left was that he was more aroused by being restrained by Sherlock than he had ever thought possible.

"John." Sherlock spoke into his ear. Since when was he so completely in control? He had been so nervous just days ago and now he was acting as if this was completely normal. As if he knew exactly what he was doing. Sherlock gently kissed John's left shoulder, right above the scar. "John," he murmured again, kissing the nape of his neck. For a moment John considered fighting, but even as he silently formulated the plan Sherlock pulled at the shirt, forcing his arms up just so high that it didn't hurt. "Can I keep you?" Sherlock whispered that sentence, obviously aware of how silly it was, but John felt like crying. "Can I?" he inquired again.

"Sherlock." John felt a hand on the small of his back, warm and strong, mapping his skin, feeling the strain of standing in the strange position he was in. "Sherlock, let me turn around."

A sigh and a kiss like a feather on his right shoulder, and then, for only a second, Sherlock loosened his grip on the shirt. John used that second to pull away and turn around, pushing his arms over Sherlock's head, trapping him in an embrace. Their faces were only an inch apart and they were both breathing heavily. The smile on Sherlock's face told John that he was proud of him, and positively surprised. With a grin, John leaned in to kiss him again and carefully pushed Sherlock back until his calves bumped into the coffee table. "John," Sherlock mumbled into John's mouth, but he didn't let go. Laughing and still kissing they navigated themselves around the table and just before falling on the couch, Sherlock pulled John's arms back from over his head so he wouldn't break his wrists on impact.

With a grunt John landed on Sherlock who immediately wrapped his arms around him again. They were both breathless and when John shifted his hips, just a fraction, he could finally feel Sherlock's arousal against his own, and Sherlock jerked violently, gasping at the intense feeling, eyes wide in surprise. John wanted nothing more than to grind into him, make him writhe and moan and come, but considering his strong reaction, he thought better of it and lifted his hips again, moving to the side to give Sherlock space to get his breath back.

"Are you okay?" John asked, breathless and a little light headed.

Sherlock swallowed hard and then nodded. "I'm sorry. I did it again, didn't I?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I didn't include you in the decision making."

John laughed and kissed the spot on Sherlock's chest that had become his favorite place in the world. "I would have had ways of stopping you, you know? And if you plan on manipulating me or forcing me by doing what you just did, well, you're more than welcome to keep doing it."

For a moment, John wondered if he should move off him entirely, but when Sherlock's hands started moving up and down his back, he decided to stay and take the wind out of their sails by just lying there, listening to Sherlock's quick heart beat and breathing.

"I'm glad you're home."

"Did you talk to Sarah?"

Why was he bringing her up now? Sherlock clearly did not know anything about good timing. Was he scared that she might not want to let John go? Was he jealous?

"Yes. She says hi."

Sherlock was silent, but John could practically hear him think. He was probably evaluating the information he had on Sarah, John and their break up.

"She was surprised you didn't show up when we had lunch." John chuckled as Sherlock's hand moved up further until he ran his fingers through John's hair.

"I think I feel a bit sorry for her, but not really."

John lifted his head to look at him and caught Sherlock's grinning.

"I am grateful, though, because she lets me have you."

The appropriate argument about the ownership over a person was a ship that had sailed long ago. John's screen saver neatly spelled out what Sherlock thought about that.

"I'm sorry I upset you," John said, and he meant it. "I overreacted. I know that it was not reasonable, but sometimes I can't help it. I just want you to know that I'll be here, no matter what, I'll always be here."

With a sigh he pressed his cheek against Sherlock's chest, a little overwhelmed by how glad he was that Sherlock was back home and the fact that they were holding on to each other, shirtless and aroused and that it did not seem weird or wrong in the least.

After a while, he felt Sherlock's breathing slow down and eventually he fell asleep. John was astonished that Sherlock could fall asleep with him lying splayed on top of him, but then again he probably needed to sleep very badly and his body just gave in, not caring for any disruptions. The predicament now was that John knew that if he moved, Sherlock would probably wake up, no matter how deeply he slept. There was really only one solution, he would have to stay just as he was and hope that their bodies would suffice to keep them warm.

However, knowing that he was too heavy for Sherlock, he carefully and slowly moved just a bit to the side so that Sherlock was pressed against the back of the couch with John lying on the other side, using Sherlock's chest as a pillow with his left arm drawn over his chest. Sherlock's arm was still on John's back, and when John exhaled deeply he could feel the grip tighten lightly. It took John a minute to figure out that he had caused the reaction because he had been blowing air across Sherlock's left nipple, causing a reaction that reached him even in his dreams. With a smile John thought that nobody would ever believe him if he told anyone about this private version of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective; sleeping on the couch with his shirt off, half hard in his dress pants, so vulnerable and silent, and with John Watson on top of him. Bliss.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and for your encouraging comments :-)


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